On My Own
by Anonymous Idiosyncrasy
Summary: Not exactly romance... yet. You have to wait for me to get to the good parts. It involves Will Turner's son, who just happens to be even hotter than he is (if thats possible to describe) and a young teenager trying to make it on her own.
1. The Shop

Hey all the people reading this (or lack thereof). I have to tell you some background on this story. It's set around the same time, or about 20 years after PotC. It begins in a port, remarkably like Port Royal, but named otherwise. I own most of the characters, except the ones you've seen before. I own some of the places, namely any taverns my char stumbles into and/or out of during the course of this fic. Please R&R. Thank ya very much! And onto the real good stuff.  
  
She woke up in a small dark room, her blankets shoved down to her feet. It was hot, and flies were swarming outside already, a bad sign for so early in the day. She sat up, just barely missing banging her head on the crossbeam, and pushed her long auburn hair out of her face. She rubbed at her eyes, getting used to the faint sunlight, and leaned over the side of the small cot, grabbing at a pair of shoes she knew she had left there that evening. She slipped them on her feet, the soles thin and getting holes. Slowly she got up and slipped the brown homespun over her head. The arms were almost up to her elbows and the hem was already let down as far as possible, and showed her ankles. She tied the front, pulled the laces to the extent of their length. It was baggy and sat loosely about her frame, making her look worse off than she was. She brushed her hair, counting to 50, and tied it up with a band of leather.  
She made her way down the stairs, watching her steps, missing the old ones that would whine when you put your weight on them. She walked into the kitchen, not surprised to see her father snoring, his head on the kitchen table, and a pint of ale half drunk in front of him. She went to the strongbox and grabbed a few coins, frowning at their meager supply. She had to fix that. And it would start today. She snuck out the door, shutting it softly and headed into town.  
  
The market was slowly being set up, the farmers setting up their crops, most small and shriveled, due to the drought. The gypsies were opening the windows on their traveling houses, the small wagons that seemed as if they could carry anything and never be full. She stopped to gaze at the red and gold ribbons, the crystal wind chimes and little toys she knew she could never afford. Pulling her eyes away from the irresistible assortment of trinkets, she saw what she was looking for. At the back of the market, away from the crowd that was gathering, was the stall she had bought for herself. Smiling happily, she reached the ancient wood stand and place the coins she had taken under the countertop.  
She turned and stooped, her fingers searching for the handle to a trapdoor. She found it, and lifted it, groaning under the weight. It flipped back and made a dust cloud appear from the dry ground, and she coughed, wiping her hand on her sleeve. She reached in, and pulled out the things she had been saving. The little gold pocket watch, with the working hands and the loving engraving, a gift to her from one of the suitors she would never accept. The small scented candles, lovingly made or stolen from her families supply, something they would never know about, since none of them could read or took the time to count. The ribbons she had dyed herself, struggling to perfect the dye and cut of each so as not to waste anything. The small brooch she had found under the floorboards of the kitchen when she had dropped her rare sweet candy. The chocolate she had gotten on her only trip to the big town south of the pier, called New Farnsworth, a gift from her father when he'd been too drunk to care how much it'd cost. And all the little shells and stones she had polished carefully, spending her own time to work for what she wanted. Something of her own.  
Admiring them, she set them softly on the dusty wood, covered with holes from termites and other insects, displaying them for the best light, the places the costumers would see them. She sat on a wooden barrel, rolling up her sleeves and smoothing her dirty dress. Now to wait for the costumers. 


	2. Nathaniel Turner

She looked down at her hands, swinging her feet back and forth, waiting. She heard the scuff of shoes on the hard packed dirt, and looked up. There was a young man walking up out of the crowd toward the older end of the marketplace. He had dark brown hair and a scraggly mustache, probably no older than nineteen. He wore soft brown breeches and a white sweat stained tunic. He had a strong jaw and high cheekbones, and walked with a sort of swaying motion that thoroughly amazed her. The walk would be more suited to keeping balance on the deck of a swaying ship in the clear blue Caribbean waters. His skin was golden tan, and his muscles taunt, ready to haul keel, or carry heavy barrels. Then she recognized him. He was the blacksmith's son. He was son of the blacksmith that had wedded the daughter of the Governor of Port Royal. She had seen the wedding picture. They looked lovely together, Will and Elizabeth Turner. He was their son.  
She lowered her head, hoping he didn't stop at her stand. She was shy, especially when it came to men. Her mother hated that about her. It was hard to find a groom for a shy, and not even average looking girl. Especially when she had no dowry. Little Beka already had suitors. Once mother had her married, they would be rich, and Tory would remain a maid for the rest of her life. Thank the Lord.  
He walked past her stand, stopping by and old maid's flower stand, and buying a bundle of wilted carnations. They were red, and less dry than all the others at the stand, and Tory wondered whom they were for. He turned, and she quickly lowered her head, blushing a bright red as he came to her stand.  
"Hello." He said, his voice husky and kind. She looked up at him, controlling the urge to lower her head yet again. She had to sell something.  
"Hello." She was so shy! Couldn't she offer him a brooch or something, for whoever the flowers were for? No, she could barely say anything.  
"The ribbons are lovely. My name's Nate. Will you tell me yours?" He smiled at her, and her heart beat faster. She blushed, and smiled awkwardly.  
"It's Tory, Tory Taylor. Nice to meet you, Nate." She reached out to shake his hand, and he took it and softly kissed her knuckles, making her face the same color as the carnations in his hand.  
"I'll take a ribbon, blue. And nice to meet you, Tory." He handed her a small silver coin, and she reached under the table to give him change, but he shook his head, "No, you keep the change. I don't need it." He took the ribbon, and, tying it around the carnation stems, left. When he had reached the end of the street, he turned and smiled at her. She smiled back, not so awkwardly, and he rushed off to the docks. 


End file.
